


Walk of Shame

by araignee



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Possessive Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 14:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araignee/pseuds/araignee
Summary: In which Bloodhound and Mirage make a series of poor choices, and in retrospect, should have checked for cameras given their line of work.





	Walk of Shame

**Author's Note:**

> some clown named james told me to try writing one of our many bad AUs and here is the result

Like most bad situations Elliott found himself in, it seemed things for the most part stemmed from him being a smartass and dumbass in equal measure. Sometimes it was impossible to say which one outweighed the other, and despite his intelligence as an accredited military engineer it was as if he could not help himself from making brainless decisions time and time again. 

In his defense, there never used to be cameras set up in the far reaches of the Swamps where little action occurred, so it’s not like he knew the match organisers were going to make structural changes for the new opening season to accommodate some celebrity daredevil who was joining the roster, or that this oversight would go on to become his inadvertent sex tape.

And so Elliott, being a smartass and dumbass, finds himself saying with the utmost confidence, “I know where the blind spots are.”

Bloodhound nods into Elliott’s neck, their breathing mask already unfastened and dangling off the sides. “ _Mig langar að ríða þig_ ,” they pant hotly against his skin and continue to fumble with his belt buckle

By now, Elliott had picked up on some of the language Bloodhound uses, most of which was surprisingly colourful. Well he’d picked up on the important ones anyway, like  _I want to fuck you_ , which they’ve been saying desperately for the past couple minutes.

“Ah, babe,” Terribly pleased with himself, Elliott pushes back against them slowly and lazily with a shit-eating grin, “You have such a way with words.”

Not too long ago, Elliott would’ve never believed that this could happen. There was a time where he genuinely feared and revered the champion hunter, but getting routinely bent over and fucked by said champion really changes your perspective on things. Like how Bloodhound had a tendency to revel in the thrill of the kill a bit  _too_  much, and this would be made far more apparent when their ultimate ability involved heightening all their senses. Where most adjusted and sane teammates would leave them to cool down, Elliott had decided to let his smartass-dumbass instincts take over and say: “Need a hand, buddy?”

Needless to say, they took up on their offer for a hand, the other one and then his mouth. To their credit, Bloodhound had the courtesy to sheepishly extend a lengthy explanation for their actions shortly after, saying their brethren had to keep the tradition of the  _berserkr_ alive, of which Elliott did not understand at all and stopped following altogether when they started introducing the part about ritualistic animal sacrifices.

In the end Elliott doesn’t get what warrants this strange and concerning story, it’s not as if he hasn’t popped an excitement boner before himself. So here they are now, once again pawing at each other at the most inappropriate of times. 

“Over here,” Elliot says, pulling them behind the rocks by the water. The area had been empty for quite some time, the only traces of another team having been around being the death boxes by their feet. He gives the lid a sound pat, still grinning. “Look, we got seats and everything! Man, we’re sorted out today.” 

Bloodhound frowns. “We are supposed to honour the dead.”

Trust Bloodhound to get religious right before they were about to get down and dirty. That being said, Elliott was nothing if not reasonable, so he at least peered over to see whom the box belonged to.

“Oh, we’re definitely fucking on this.” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s Caustic’s.”

Bloodhound hesitates. They do not discriminate their enemies on the just plains of battle; whoever they are, they were taken down valiantly and will be guided to the Great Halls by hand of the righteous legion of  _valkyrja—_

Elliott palms at their arousal and they push him down without a second thought.

He laughs impishly into Bloodhound’s mouth as they grind their hips upon him, frantic and urgent and, oh — he can definitely feel that all the blood has left their brain and travelled down south.

Elliott spreads his legs without question at the familiar pressure of Bloodhound’s knee pressing insistently between them and they groan in approval. He keens and arches up against them when their mouth breaks off to mark the column of his neck like something feral.

A thought occurs to him and Elliott barks out a breathless huff of laughter. He snickers as he raps his knuckles on the box beneath him and says, “You know this is the closest Caustic is ever going to get to actually getting any, right?”

The next moment there is a hand twisted in his hair.

“You will  _not_  speak of anyone else when you’re with me, _Drusla._ ” Bloodhound snaps, lips pulled up in a snarl. They yank hard enough that Elliott yelps and a full body shiver prickles him with excitement.

“Helvítis hóru,” He hears them say in something akin to wonder, “You  _like_  that.”

“Yeah,” Elliott breathes out raggedly and wets his lips. Bloodhound ought not to think much on the unorthodox things that turn him on when they’re about to have sex on what is essentially someone’s coffin in the open. Then he asks, “Haven’t heard that one before, what’s it mean?”

Bloodhound’s huff is low and short. “Fucking whore,” they say in that innocuously lilting voice, the one no one expects them to be regularly cussing in.

“Hey!” Elliott says, only a bit affronted all things considered.

He kicks their back as a matter of principle and the bastard is still having a chuckle. They lean in to mouth the side of his face in what he thinks is vaguely apologetic, but before he can mill on that, they bear down and say into his ear, “Is that not what you are?”

And then Elliott is roughly flipped over by the shoulders, the breath knocked out of him as he’s shoved against the flat of the crate. He feels the pull of Bloodhound struggling with the belts and weaponry bunched up on his back and he says, “Settle down! Hey— don’t rip anything back there, we’re only on the third round!”

There is a rough yank when Bloodhound finds the zipper and his protests are cut off with a gasp when they press their hard cock between the cleft of his cheeks, dragging stripes of pre-cum across his entrance. He says quickly, “Lube’s in the third pouch to the left of my right ankle.”

There is an incredulous pause, to which he says: “Look, I have twenty-six pouches strapped to me, it’s only natural I’d use at least  _one_  for—” and he barely gets to finish before he feels a cold wetness press into him.

Elliott can’t see them, but he can tell they’re losing any semblance of control with their uneven breaths and the quick, methodical jabs of their finger pushing in and out of him. There is no warning when a second finger joins and he lets out a hiss. “Shit, shit, shit _,”_ He stutters out as they pump and stretch their fingers into him with no signs of stopping, “Oh,  _shit—”_

Elliott’s knuckles turn white on his grip against the edge of the container and he lets out a low keening sound when they brush against the spot that drives a wave of hot pleasure up his spine. He reaches down for his aching cock, but is stopped when Bloodhound twists his arm back and presses him down firmly with their free hand.

At that, Bloodhound withdraws their fingers and kicks Elliott’s legs further apart, then— in a swift motion, they push their cock into him and Elliott bows down, convulsing around them.

“ _Skíta_ , you feel so good.” They groan, voice unsteady and cursing in-between.

Elliott is bent completely over, moaning loudly into his arm with his ass up and he frankly couldn’t care less about what he looked like right now.

He groans as Bloodhound picks up their pace, grip iron-tight on his sides which was bound to leave a mark. They were using him to chase their own pleasure and Elliott couldn’t help it— this turns him on god dammit, the desperate hard and fast fucking in the open where anyone could walk in on them— he cants his hips up to push back against them, trying to meet their frantic movements.

Elliott’s body is wonderful like this: hot, tight and surrendering to them. As Bloodhound holds Elliott down and drives into him, they are all animal instinct and primal urges, grunting and growling and snarling, spearing him selfishly against their hard cock.

They are delirious with Elliott’s heat wrapped sweetly around them, wholly driven by the blind urge to take and break and conquer that makes them feel the most alive in battle.

“You are mine.” They say, the sound dark and throaty.

It’s too much and too fast, and Elliott can hardly breathe as he’s pressed against the container, he only nods and screws his eyes shut, reduced to moaning and writhing.

They fuck into him wildly and savagely without reserve, the force of it shaking the lid at its hinges. “ _Say it,”_ They lean forward to growl into his ear, this time louder and harsher, nails biting into the skin of Elliott’s hips.

The curve of Bloodhound’s cock brushes repeatedly against his prostate, a stabbing pleasure bringing tears to the corners of his eyes; Bloodhound knows exactly the spot that drives Elliott crazy and they brutally hammer into it, angling their thrusts to the hilt.

“Yes— yes, yes, yes,” Elliott pants, helplessly babbling into his arms.

There is a snarl against his neck and he knows his answer doesn’t satisfy them but he can hardly process his thoughts around anything, his cock is aching and dribbling between his legs and he just needs to come god damn it— And then Bloodhound reaches under him to grab hold of his swollen cock, fingers wrapped tight around the base.

“ _Fuck!”_  Elliott cries, bucking desperately against them. “Please— I’m yours, please—”

“You will think of no one else when I’m with you.” They snarl again, this time biting hard into the meat of his neck. “Not  _ever_ , not when you’re mine.”

He’s so close it hurts. All he can do is lie there and take it and cry while he’s at it.

“Fuck, I won’t! I’m yours— It’s you, it’s always been you!”

Bloodhound moans into his skin, a wrecked and pained sound. They begin to stroke and fuck him in earnest and he thinks he’s going to pass out. Specks at the corners of his vision, Elliott lets himself fall forward completely plaint, body yielding to Bloodhound taking possession of him.

“Mine,” Bloodhound growls against him and their hips begin to stutter, panting hotly and loudly, “mine, mine, mine,” they keep saying until their voice becomes choked, “mine, mine,  _you’re mine_ —” they sink their teeth into him hard enough to break skin and push themselves flush against Elliott’s back, burying their cock deep into him, spilling with a shudder.

Elliott cries and clenches around them, and when they pump him with rough strokes he howls and sobs openly— the full length of him spasming against the crate as a hot wave of relief crashes over him. Finally, his legs give in and he presses his damp face against the metal lid, completely and utterly wrecked.

Above him, Bloodhound is similarly doubled over, catching their breath and content to rest their exposed damp cheek against his shoulder.

“Shit,” he pants, chest heaving at the intensity of it all, “I hope nobody heard that.”

“That’s a nice thought,” A voice says cuttingly. “Glad to hear you’re done,  _amigos_.”

The pair jump apart from each other, Elliott tripping over his clothes and Bloodhound struggling to quickly put their cock back in their trousers.

“You forgot to turn the comms off?!” Elliott shrieks.

“ _You_  forgot to turn the comms off!” Bloodhound responds accusingly.

“No one bothered to turn the comms off.” Octane grits out.

There is a beat of silence as their mistake sinks in.

Then of course, came denial: “Why were you even listening the whole time!” Elliott says in hysterics.

“Oh, so you’re blaming  _me_  now?”

After a moment, Bloodhound interjects, “The ring is closing in, we should move fast.”

Elliott is red-faced and indignant, still struggling to rearrange his clothing from the back. “I need your help with the zip,” he grumbles. They both hear the exasperated ‘oh, for fuck’s sake’ over the comms and Bloodhound lets out a resigned sigh before assisting him.

“This is going to be an interesting walk of shame.” Elliott can’t help but comment, cocking his gun and wriggling to adjust his underwear. Beside him, Bloodhound wordlessly slips their gloves back on and adjusts their mask.

After that, they set out to reunite with their squadmate they’d both thought either ran off to play solo or had just died. The latter seemed preferable at the moment. 

  

When they meet up with Octane, he’s already halfway across the map, presumably to have gotten as far away from them as possible.

Elliott looks as guilty as they get and Bloodhound is more reserved and restless than usual. He rubs the back of his neck, not quite able to look his squadmate in the eyes. “Uh, hey buddy—”

“Just get me a win and never speak of this again.” Octane says.

And so, the trio resumed the match as a unit. A silent unit focused on nothing but the kill and exchanging as few words and shared spaces as possible.

And as uncomfortable as Elliott felt running around with a sticky feeling drying between his legs, they do, in fact, win.

What followed was the most awkward celebration photo op that will grace the hallowed halls of the Apex Champions, with each Legend standing resolutely far apart from each other, hunched in on themselves and looking pointedly away from one another.

Later that day, they are in the backroom, waiting to be called out for their victory press junket. As usual, Bloodhound does not bother to attend, but celebrities Elliott and Octane are more than happy to soak it all in.

“And I thought I was the daredevil.” Octane says once they are alone.

Elliott tries to get comfortable on the couch, but it’s just not happening until he gets to take a long, introspective, shameful shower back at his apartment to wash the crust off.

“What do you mean?” He asks, reaching for the complimentary fruit bowl.

“Sex on the field? That’s ballsy, compadre.”

Elliott tosses a grape into his mouth, grinning like the smartass he is. “Gotta love the camera blind spots, baby.”

“What blind spots?”

“Well for one, there's the huts at Swamps; beyond the last two at the ledge there’s no filming set up.” He explains, feeling rather smug that he, the senior and much more handsome celebrity Legend between them, has wisdom to impart. "It's especially in the outer ledge areas, it's a total camera deadzone. I always head there to powder my face, among _—_  uh, other things."

Octane looks at him strangely. “You know they patched that, right?” he asks, slowly. “They installed new cameras on every ledge to film  _my_  stunts. The new internal layout blueprint was sent to our direct comms last week as part of the season briefing. You did read that, right?”

Elliott stares at him in a lengthy silence. He opens and closes his mouth to speak and finally settles on, “What?”

When their agent opened the doors to usher in the press, they are immediately met with Elliott’s hysterical _—_

_“What!”_  

**Author's Note:**

> According to Google, where I looked up swears like a giddy kid:  
> Mig langar að ríða þig - I want to fuck you  
> Drusla - Slut  
> Helvítis hóru - Fucking whore  
> Skíta - Shit


End file.
